


Redemption

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Dean Winchester is a Good Bro, Lapdance, M/M, Oral Sex, Pole Dancer Castiel (Supernatural), Pole Dancing, Stanford Era, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 01:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15159668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: On Sam's twenty-first birthday, Dean celebrates with a night out at a strip club. His impromptu birthday gift introduces Sam to one of the club's most talented dancers, and things escalate from there.





	Redemption

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awabubbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/gifts).



Under other circumstances, an eight-inch dick bobbing in Sam Winchester's face was a _fantastic_ birthday.

Other circumstances being a time and place where his brother wasn't sitting eight inches away.

Why was he thinking of everything in fucking inches? What about a male-only strip club inspired this sudden obsession with the Imperial system?

On stage, a bald, half naked dancer, billed "The Carpenter," let his tape measure snap shut. The tape measure he'd just finished lining up against his impressive, half-hard cock.

Oh. That's why.

Beside Sam in the fuchsia glow of the stage, Dean chuckled. Sam swallowed. Strip clubs were old news, he reminded himself. He'd used a fake ID to sneak in with Dean when he was seventeen, when his shyness made it easy to play him off as a freshly-turned adult. It wasn't as if Dean never saw him react to things. Your home's an old sedan and a thousand double queen motel rooms, and you get used to stuff.

But it was news. It's news, because this was the first strip club they've been to since Sam left for Stanford. It's the first one they've been to since Sam came out. Since his interest in bedmates shifted from women to men, to both, to a sort of blurry, bewildering spectrum that seemed to include broad shoulders and pretty butts.

It was easier to be honest with Dean about his sexuality when his sexuality looked like a carbon copy. Sam felt like his hands were tied behind his back, like he'd left his real self back in the dorms.

This whole 'spend the summer together' thing was a bad idea.

The eight-inch dick, now a safe distance away from Sam's forehead, waved its agreement.

A perfect, blonde-frosted California specimen in a tight gray tank top delivered their third round of drinks. Dean plucked the plastic cups from the tray and handed the dude a tenner, earning himself a wide grin.

"Bottoms up, birthday boy," Dean encouraged, handing Sam a third whiskey sour. The drinks were cheap and weak, and he drained half the glass in two swallows, headed for a buzz by brute force. Officially legal today or not, he knew his way around a rocks glass.

None of this was lost on Dean. "Relax, Sammy," he said, gesturing at the stage and its occupants with his beer, "It's cool. It's actually kinda fun, although I got no idea how Champ over there," the beer wavered towards The Carpenter now, "hasn't passed out yet."

"You don't have to do this," Sam muttered, slouching a little deeper in his seat when the dancer caught them looking and headed their way. "Really."

"Nah. Solidarity," Dean replied, and clunked the plastic rim of his cup to Sam's, "and you're gonna need a twenty."

Sam's question snapped off as The Carpenter and his eight-inch hammer slid into his lap.

The contact was brief, warm, and scented with exotic cologne. Sam found his palm spread against the dancer's chest, catching on the faintest stubble as The Carpenter pressed his hand down. Sam's hand stopped belonging to him. It belonged to someone with zero fucks. Someone who let their freak flag fly with no hesitation. The dancer did a deep knee bend, poking Sam in the belly with that monster dick. Blood rushed south in a dizzying spiral, and Sam felt hot, tight, and pinched in his blue jeans.

Sam's fingers - and his twenty - vanished in the dancer's broad, warm palm. The Carpenter kissed Sam's knuckles, looked him up and down with a liar's smile, and then he was gone. The music slammed to an end like a crash from a high, and Sam watched The Carpenter's retreating ass. The stubble from his chest left a warm glow on Sam's skin.

Dean shook his head. "Your face," he snickered. Still solidly, comfortably Dean. Not, as it happened, turned into a stranger by Sam's undeniable attraction to dudes.

"Screw you," Sam retorted, grin just sort of grinning itself. Tension slid out of him like water.

"Still wanna leave?" Dean asked.

The elated smile still plastered on his face, Sam shrugged. "Maybe a couple more first."

"Drinks? Or dudes?"

A rowdy cheer interrupted Sam, mid-sentence. The night's emcee, wearing a costume that was less a tuxedo than the fond memory of it, trotted across the stage. As he spoke, the footlights shifted from deep pink, to sinister red.

"So how about _that_ cheeky bastard?" the emcee demanded, with a lush Irish accent that made Sam's stomach flutter. Screams went up around him. The emcee nodded. "I know, right? Everyone needs a handyman with a set of tools like that."

More screams.

"And speaking of, coming up next is a lad who knows just how to use his pole."

"It's almost Midnight. How's he not out of dick puns yet?" Dean muttered into his drink. His attention diverted from the stage as a young woman with a sweep of long, dark hair leaned over his chair. Sam heard her introduce herself, voice dropping to a whisper. She leaned close to Dean's ear.

"Redemption can fly you right up to Heaven," the emcee continued, drawing Sam's attention front and center again, "but it'll be one Hell of a ride." He backed down the catwalk, and a hooded figure slipped past. Sam caught the flash of bare toes in the rosy light.

A bluesy melody glided over the audience, accompanied by a deeply sensual voice and pulsing guitars. The dancer - Redemption - untied the throat clasp of his cloak, letting the red footlights of the stage spill on his chest. A fog machine started up, pouring billows of haze around his ankles. He moved towards one of the central poles like a magnet, straddled it, and let his body curve away from it in a slow arc. White light replaced the red in a blinding flash, and sleek fabric dropped to reveal his body to his audience.

Bleached seaglass blue by the stage, Redemption's eyes locked on Sam, upside down. And yeah, okay, maybe the guy couldn't really see past the footlights. Maybe that's not how stages work. Fuck reality. Sam wanted to take Redemption's face in his hands; kiss the full, softly parted lips.

The music dipped low and dirty, and Redemption yanked himself flush to the pole. A pair of glittering painted-on wings flashed, flexing with the muscles in his back. As Sam watched, Redemption worked his way up, steel shaft squeezed between his thighs. He defied gravity, body twirling lazy circles, shifting from one pose to the next with a swimmer's fluid grace. Sam had never seen so much subtle, easy control, and he gravitated to it. Redemption exhaled sex like some sort of superpower. Sam wanted to know what he smelled like. And oh fuck, wanted to touch him. Wanted to be touched by him.

Fantasies rippled through his mind. Sam thought about fucking Redemption into a wall; about how he'd arch with Sam's cock tight in his ass and a hand tight in his hair. He thought about how Redemption's stomach and thighs would feel as they flexed under his hands. And he thought about riding Redemption, how he could probably roll those hips up slow, take Sam so soft and so smooth that he'd just come apart. The blues and the alcohol didn't help much, and by the time the show was over, Sam's eyes were glazed and his hands were starting to drift towards his cock. He caught himself just short, and let out a shaky exhale. No harm in wanting, he thought, wetting dry lips. Although he might have to take that lust to the bathroom for a quickie, if he wanted to stop looking like a pervert at a peep show.

Coming back to earth, Sam belatedly realized he was alone. He cast about, fear tossing a slap of cold water on the haze of arousal. Dean was headed back his way, the young woman from earlier on his arm. His keys were in the hand she hadn't claimed.

A wordless trade of looks later, Dean was on his way to introducing his new paramour to the luxuries of his backseat, and Sam was trying to come back down from a one-two punch of adrenaline and arousal.

Their California dreamboat server sidled up to Sam's chair and touched his wrist. "Come on, cutie," he purred, when Sam looked up, "Redemption needs a couple minutes to change, but you can relax in the paradise suite in the meantime."

Those were… definitely words. Sam shook his head, trying to rattle his remaining functioning brain cells into a translation. "Redemption?" He asked.

The server hummed an affirmative. "That's a sweet big brother you've got," he added, "do you want a sparkler in your birthday drink, or no?"

Not sure where this was leading, but pretty sure he could blame Dean for it, Sam let the server lead him to whatever the 'paradise suite' was.

* * *

Sam was slouched on a long black leather sectional, deep into his second glass of complimentary - and very good - champagne when Redemption arrived. The light here was low - just a few warm lamps dotting the landscape of immense couches and glass tables - and Sam almost missed him come in. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the club.

"Hello, Sam," Redemption said, quiet, from the shadows of the hood he'd worn onstage.

His voice was low and smoky. Sam's heart hammered against his ribs.

Tossing back his hood, Redemption advanced on Sam. He bent over, bracing himself lightly with one hand on Sam's thigh. The other hand took a slow, meandering exploration of the bright red letters spelling "STANFORD UNIVERSITY" on his chest. Heat radiated from his touch, headier than the champagne.

"Happy birthday, college boy," Redemption murmured, mouth so close to Sam's that he could feel the soft push of air as he spoke, "I hear someone bought me for you. Are you nervous?"

Nervous? Dean wasn't here. Dean was busy drilling a girl in the back seat of Dad's Impala. There was nobody to witness or judge him and his uncertain, mostly untried body. Nobody but a stripper, whose stage name was somewhere between a racehorse and a comic book villain. He shouldn't be nervous.

"No," Sam lied.

That was the right answer, because Redemption broke the rules.

Redemption kissed him, full and soft, teasing along the sensitive inner edge of Sam's lips with his tongue until he shivered.

"Good," Redemption said, "I want you, Sam. Do you want me?"

The fragment of Sam's brain not overwhelmed by lust pointed out that this was part of the show. A lapdance was ninety percent fantasy. Redemption was a performer and a professional, and Dean bought his services. When it was over, they'd both get back to their lives.

To that fragment, Sam said, 'get fucked.'

"I want you," Sam answered, in a voice that was three quarters air.

Redemption smiled, straightened, and let the slick black cloak hit the floor. While the theme of his costume hadn't changed, a white harness now crisscrossed his chest, matching the white jockstrap with its gold-riveted belt. When he moved, gold filigree etched in the straps caught the light. A thin white choker hugged the base of his throat. Redemption looked like a gay angel wet dream. Sam sucked in a rough breath, dropped his eyes and licked his lips, trying not to leer like a creep.

From his peripheral vision, he saw Redemption's weight shift; saw one bare foot press into the couch next to Sam's hip. Redemption leaned over him again, much closer now, chest and shoulders blocking out the room's dim light. Elegant hands reached for Sam's wrists, prying his hands from where Sam had pinned them under his thighs. Sam looked up in surprise, to find those seaglass eyes watching him intently, just an inch away. The woodsy scent of Redemption's cologne, or the body oil on his skin, twined around them. God, he smelled like a forest fire, and Sam didn't think he'd ever get the smoke out of his clothes after this.

"I lied," Sam admitted, "I don't do this much. I, um." The sentence spun off, direction forgotten, because Redemption put Sam's hands on his chest.

His fingers splayed under the dancer's, spreading out to soak up every sensation. Rigid muscles rolled under Redemption's warm, slick skin. Here too, Sam felt the soft, nubbly texture of faint stubble, and wondered if he was shaved everywhere. Beneath the insistent, gentle pressure of the other's hands, Sam's touch drifted southward, stopping at the belt. Redemption leaned into the pressure, pushing into Sam's space until his hands slid to Redemption's hips on their own.

"I guessed," Redemption said with a slow smile, that whiskey-kissed voice of his humming under Sam's skin, "I'll take good care of you. Just let me lead. You know the rules?"

Sam bobbed his head, jeans grown too snug once again. His eyes locked on Redemption's like a lifeline.

Satisfied, Redemption stepped back again, taking all those miles of warm skin with him. He nudged Sam's knees apart and knelt between them, guiding Sam's hands up to clasp around the back of his neck as he went down. "Tell me about Stanford," Redemption murmured, stroking Sam's thighs.

It seemed like an odd question for a stripper to ask. Sam figured it was to distract him, and hey, on the razor edge of self control, with a stranger's hands lingering around his belt buckle, he could use a little distraction. "Uh, it's nice," Sam answered, "it's a pretty campus. Not, um," Redemption's fingers unthreaded his belt and popped open the button of his jeans, "not--huge," Sam finished in a rush.

Fingers traced the ridge of Sam's cock, pinched against his thigh by layers of cotton lycra, and denim. "Mm," Redemption hummed, "unlike some things." He added more pressure, and Sam melted into the chair. The pleasure of sensation and pressure rode tandem with pain, somewhere between not fucking enough, and way too fucking much. Picking up on Sam's discomfort, Redemption took one of Sam's hands and guided it to his own aching cock.

"You should fix that," Redemption said. And what the hell did that mean? Adjust himself, or jerk off right here in front of him? Sam took the liberty he was given, dipping his hand into his jockeys to free his dick from where it was trapped. Before he could do anything more than register relief, that hand was pulled away, pressed into the cushions at Sam's side with Redemption's firm grip on his wrist.

"Keep talking," Redemption urged, rising up to straddle Sam's knee, "what are you studying?"

Sam told him. Sam told him a lot of things, because he was apparently shitty at interrogation. Maybe it was just polite, professional interest on the dancer's part, but Redemption seemed genuinely curious.

He asked how Sam liked his professors, with his chest in Sam's face and his fingers under Sam's waistband, "Tell me which one you want to fuck. I know there's at least one," he said.

He peppered Sam with questions about dorm life while he writhed in Sam's lap, turned now, back against Sam's chest. Those golden glitter wings twisted as his spine arched, just how it did in Sam's nascent fantasies. His hips rolled slow between Sam's hands, while they talked in abbreviated murmurs about intramural sports.

"You know," Sam panted, "if you're not already in college somewhere, you should apply."

The suggestion threw off Redemption's flow. He paused, then leaned back into Sam's chest, leaving glitter on his shirt. "I don't know, Sam," he said seriously, "I don't think I'm made for college. I barely scraped through high school."

"I'd be there," Sam persisted, the words out of his mouth before he could think them through, "you wouldn't be alone."

Redemption froze, then slipped off of Sam's lap. He wanted to punch himself in the face. Creeping out strippers, Winchester? Just another Sunday night, then?

"That's very kind," Redemption murmured, and turned to him after another pause, "Sam, I'm going to break the rules a little. Would you like that?"

Elation soared in Sam's chest. Oh hell yes, he was about breaking rules. "What are you thinking?"

Redemption dropped down between Sam's thighs for the second time. He caught the backs of Sam's knees and yanked his hips towards the edge of the sectional like it was no big deal. "I didn't ask if you wanted an explanation," Redemption purred, pushing against the inside of Sam's knees until his legs were splayed wide and helpless, "I asked if you want me to break the rules."

Sam's breath hitched. "Will it get you in trouble?" he gasped. Wherever this was going, He wasn't about to cost Redemption his job.

Fingers drew down Sam's fly. "Should I _break the rules_ ," Redemption growled.

Oh fuck, he hadn't known he was this into manhandling. Sam took one last, shocked look at his own lust, and let himself drown in it. "Yeah. Yeah, do it."

In a flash, Redemption had Sam's cock and balls out of his jockeys, threaded through the front slit of the underwear. The sudden release of pressure was almost - almost - as good as the confident hand stroking him down, and Sam moaned.

The lush lips he'd been fantasizing about caressed him, followed by Redemption's tongue, hot and slick enough to drag another sound from Sam's chest. His head dropped back, overcome, and he arched into the dancer's mouth.

Redemption let him get away with that once, then pinned his hips down, the warm weight of him pressed across Sam's lap. Sure hands stroked the inches of cock Redemption couldn't take, with a slow, twisting grip. His mouth enveloped Sam's tip, velvet tongue curling under the rim of his crown. The whole effect was gorgeous and decadent, pouring honeyed sweet pleasure across his senses until his toes curled. Sam hissed at every stroke, nerves sparking with liquid ice and fire. His fingers curled around the leather straps on Redemption's shoulders for an anchor. Something to squeeze while pleasure stretched his muscles taut.

"Look at me, Sam," Redemption ordered, words and breath spilling against wet skin. Sam shuddered, lost, and looked up from his dazed study of the ceiling. They locked eyes one last time, with the head of Sam's dick engulfed, the hint of a cherry tongue darting into view between Sam's length and Redemption's full lower lip. Sam felt his muscles coiling, and on the downstroke he soared into climax, still watching Redemption's eyes through half-shut lids, the deep woodsmoke scent of him burning Sam's lungs.

Fifteen minutes later, body loose with the lassitude of orgasm, Sam climbed into the passenger seat of the sex-scented Impala. He dredged up a few answers for Dean's queries and let companionable silence carry them back to the motel room. He didn't want to shower that night; didn't want to wash off the bonfire smell of Redemption's cologne. But tired as he was, Sam found himself hard again, twenty minutes after they arrived. He jerked off in the motel shower's pitiful spray, water hot as he could stand, to the memory of Redemption's strong hands and slick mouth.

Redemption's eyes followed him to bed. To the donut shoppe a county over the next morning. Out of the state. For another three months of motels and highways.

Part of Sam yearned to go back. Most of him knew that going back was crazy. The night had been a gift; a little awkward and weird but bought and paid for. Redemption spun a fantasy like the gorgeous frost fractals painting the Impala's windows in the Rockies. Frost that melted in the sun.

So Sam tried not to think about it, failed, and lived in a hazy fog of memories, desire, and lowland humidity until August.

Redemption growled through his dreams. _Should I break the rules? Should I break the rules, Sam?_ Over and over, in bed at night. In Sam's naps on the sunwarmed side of the car. In the line at Starbucks, because suddenly every mug and tumbler that summer seemed to be plastered with glittering angel's wings.

Stanford was almost a relief at the end of August. Books purchased, Sam's thin personal detritus moved from the dorms to a cheap apartment, where the lingering memories found no traction. His thoughts ordered themselves into schedules and to-do lists and basic survival, with no Dean to make the easy choices or fill the gaps.

Finally, Redemption receded into the past. Sam was in the clear. He missed it anyway.

Until two weeks into the semester, as Sam threaded his way through the crowded commons. A pair of seaglass eyes caught his; a mix of stranger and half-remembered dreams.

"College boy?" Redemption asked, dancer's body hidden in a military surplus jacket and a graffiti-scrawled tee shirt. Looking nothing like the fantasies that dogged Sam's memory.

Looking very, very touchable.

Sam took a moment to find his bearings, because somehow reality had tipped sideways and was sliding into the pit where Meg Ryan romances came from. "It's Sam," he reminded.

Redemption stepped up to him, the artistic hands that had been on Sam's skin curled in the shoulder straps of his backpack. The white ribbon choker hugged his throat, threaded now with a tiny golden shield.

"That's right," Redemption said, with a smile like a kiss, "I'm Cas." His gaze skated left, and down, and Sam noted a flash of golden glitter on the lowered lids. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

Sam pointed back the way he came, and shuffled back a step. "Oh. Uh. Should we pretend you didn't?"

Cas reached out to him before he could get far. His fingers caught Sam's elbow, urging him closer with a touch.

"No," Cas said, looking at him from the corner of his eye, "I don't. It um, turns out I'm maybe cut out for this. You're one hell of a recruiter."

"Yeah, only if you count letting cute guys grind on me while I explain intramural rugby," Sam laughed.

He could feel the air between them charge as they both acknowledged the memory, grown warmer and more fragile at once.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" Cas asked, suddenly, "This breaks all my rules. Fuck."

Sam sipped a breath, tried on a casual smile that went nuclear in two seconds flat. Whatever. "You seem to do that a lot around me. I have to get to class, but--"

And then Cas was nodding, pulling away, expression flattened.

Heart sinking, Sam lunged after him. "--wait! Seriously. Wait. Here." He pulled out his cellphone and opened his contacts. He held it out. "Can I text you later?"

Eyeing Sam uncertainly, Cas took the phone. Hunger - and the edge of something more - flared between them.

Sam didn't know what to say. And then he did know.

"Break the rules, Cas," Sam said.

**Author's Note:**

> You should really [watch this](http://polebunyan.tumblr.com/post/175163508470/hour-golden), since it - and Awabubbles - are responsible for this fic. 'Redemption' is dancing to _Hour Golden_ by Fink.


End file.
